


Workplace Conduct

by TianShan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Humor, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:56:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TianShan/pseuds/TianShan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Omegaverse human AU. In which HR professional alpha!Arthur and contract worker omega!Alfred meet and then end up violating every workplace decency rule imaginable. Or at least they do in Arthur's head.</p><p>I hadn't heard of the Omegaverse concept until I stumbled upon Hetalia. This is my take on it, which is not particularly serious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Alfred is Off His Meds

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back, and it's on a bit of hiatus... as am I. I moved to Kazakhstan and then went to Germany so I haven't had much time to write recently. Will be back on the ball soon, once things settle down. Anyway, I probably will pick this one up again, because it's amusing to write. If you're looking for something historical, though, I assure you this isn't it.

Arthur knew that he was going to be in trouble when the American walked in.

"Hiya," the golden-haired Adonis said, marching straight up to Arthur. Arthur, somewhat startled, actually leaned back a little in his chair as he was presented with a hand thrust into his personal space for a shake and a ridiculously over-the-top smile. "I'm Alfred."

Feeling a little bit like he was being held up with a gun but the gun was a smile, Arthur cleared his throat before reaching forward and taking Alfred's hand. "Arthur," he responded, and winced as Alfred squeezed just a little too hard before dropping his hand.

"So… this is the HR department, then?" Alfred asked, looking around the one-room basement office with the single, small rectangular window where the wall met ceiling. "If they keep HR in here, I can't imagine where they keep accounting." Alfred's smile hadn't dimmed.

"Yes, well," Arthur replied, straightening his tie to cover how overwhelmed and slightly irritated he felt. _Alphas_ , Arthur thought, shaking his head.

Of course, it wasn't as though Arthur himself wasn't among the alpha type; he simply disliked the majority of them. Ever since hormone-suspension pills had been introduced back in the 1970s and humanity was finally free of the crippling nature of heat cycles, overbearing masculine posturing was completely and entirely unnecessary, in Arthur's opinion. It was also absolutely meaningless. Being alpha, beta, or omega made absolutely no difference in the rhythm of life unless an omega went off his or her pills.

Though, to be fair, with the way that Alfred seemed to chuckle at his reserved response and plonk himself down uninvited in the other office chair, Arthur wasn't sure if the other man's actions were alpha posturing or just simply personality. Alfred crossed his left ankle on his right knee and offered another jaw-splitting smile. "I was sent down to dirty your doorstep so I could get the appropriate paperwork filled out," Alfred clarified. "If you let me know what I have to do, I can leave you to your HR dungeon in peace."

Arthur nodded. "I see," he said, just so the man wouldn't think him a total mute, and he turned his chair around to rifle through the new stack of manila envelopes he'd received that morning and try not to imagine what the man's pectorals could possibly look like under that striped shirt.

Being gay was incredibly annoying, Arthur had decided long ago. Not only was there all the nasty leftover stigma, but you didn't even get the common decency of assuming that the target of your lust was at least attracted to your kind. He turned around again in the chair and flipped through the folder.

"Alfred F. Jones, from Detroit?" he asked, looking up. It was obvious he was holding the correct file; the folder's contents contained a smiling passport photo of the visage sitting across from him, so he couldn't even look down into the folder to get away from the man. Balls.

"As I'm an automotive engineer, it shouldn't come as a surprise," Alfred responded, nailing Arthur to the cross again with another dazzling smile. "Though, with the response I get from the locals when I tell them that… it's like they think I'm from a warzone. I've stopped correcting them." The other winked.

On the outside, Arthur was an impassive block of stone. On the inside, Arthur was imagining the other as a needy homosexual omega male, bent over the desk and whining for Arthur's cock. That'd teach the bastard to _wink_ , all right.

Well. So far _this_ encounter was going quite swimmingly. Arthur inhaled. "I see. I trust the flight over was adequate?"

"I found British Airways to be rather adequate," Alfred said, and Arthur thought that the other would look rather adequate drooling around his cock and _what the hell is wrong with you, Arthur_? "I was drunk for a lot of it, which is always a plus when stuck into a capsule for hours on end."

"Indeed," Arthur said, trying to prevent his brains from scrambling. What the hell. "Anyhow, here's most of the paperwork that you will need. You can fill it out at your own leisure and bring it back at a more convenient date." Though what would be most convenient for Arthur would be sliding fingers into the other's loose and slick asshole in order to press against the prostate and make those red lips moan and that twangy-accent plead-

Okay, honestly. Arthur was a rather unfortunate virgin, but this had never gotten this bad before. Was it getting warm in here?

"Thanks," was the next word that came out of that should-be-come-guzzling mouth. Alfred took the paperwork. He looked up, and those blue eyes seemed to size him up for a brief second. "I assume you're the guy who enforces company policy?"

 _Company policy isn't the only thing I can enforce_ , Arthur thought. "Yes," his more sensible mouth responded.

"What's the policy on Omega Leave?" Alfred asked lightly, tipping his head.

Arthur blinked. "Generally we appreciate notice if your mate's heats are on a proper schedule, but emergencies obviously occur." Most omegas only went off their pills in order to achieve pregnancy, but some actually did prefer to go through a heat every once in a while for 'cleansing' purposes or what-have-you. Arthur couldn't imagine wanting to go through a heat, but, well. That's how the world went 'round.

"Ah, no," Alfred said, bouncing the folder that contained the paperwork against his palm. He smiled. "I mean for omegas. I'm actually an omega."

Arthur blinked, shocked that the other would reveal this so casually. In the modern workplace, type was considered to be a medical issue and nobody revealed the information unnecessarily. Pregnancy was no indicator of whether a woman was alpha or omega, and with the pills it was considered a nonissue.

"T-that… we require notice of leave for omegas since there's no reason an omega would go into heat without it being a choice," Arthur said, trying not to _stammer_. "You are guaranteed 3 weeks of Omega Leave by national guidelines… but… you can apply for more should it be necessary or the omega is trying to conceive and the heats don't produce a child." Arthur managed to get through this without throwing the other in his lap and going at him like a jackhammer, and thought he ought to be commended for this.

Alfred laughed. "Obviously, I won't be trying to conceive. Gotta love these laws… omegas have to give notice, while alphas don't. Discrimination is rife within the system, man. Probably won't be taking much advantage of the leave either… unless I find some of the local fare worth sampling, of course."

"Quite," Arthur responded, and it was either say that or tear his shirt off and beat his chest like Tarzan. 'Local fare worth sampling,' indeed.

"You're not gonna tell anybody, are you?" Alfred asked, scratching the back of his head. "I know that people aren't supposed to discriminate against omegas, but, well, y'know what people actually are like. Don't want to get off on the wrong foot."

Arthur wasn't going to _tell_ anyone _anything_. He was going to pound the other man so completely into the ground and mark him so thoroughly with his teeth that _it would be obvious_. He inhaled. "I am required by the law to keep confidence on matters such as this, as an HR professional," he repeated like a total drone.

"Thanks." Another relieved smile. ( _He would make that exact same expression after I knotted deep inside of him and release was finally-_ ) "Well, I'll get this back to you tomorrow, then. I appreciate it."

When Alfred turned to leave the basement office, Arthur was mortified to hear a strangled noise of protest coming from his throat. _Where are you going. You need to be fuc-_

Alfred turned around and raised an eyebrow, and Arthur had to say something reasonable, or go out back and drown in his own shame. "Are you taking your pills?" was the least idiotic thing that he could say, his voice a little weak.

Alfred hummed. "Yes, but due to the time changes the medication doses are a bit off," he explained. "They said I could stay at home for the next few days, but I at least wanted to get the paperwork out of the way so I could really get down to business when the time came." Another smile. "I took a taxi here, and I'll be taking one back. I wouldn't risk public transportation at this point, but figured this would be fine."

Oh, no, it certainly wasn't fine. Arthur thought that perhaps the American could use a little schooling in proper conduct. Preferably with Arthur as the teacher and a rattan cane as the instrument of instruction. He awkwardly adjusted his tie. "Ah," he said. "I see. I will see you at a later date, then, Mr. Jones."

"Oh, please, call me Alfred." Another smile, and the omega was gone.

When he was sure that the other's footsteps were not coming back, Arthur stood up and climbed the stairs out of the basement himself to go make a cup of tea. At least the relentless desire to master the other made a little more sense, now, Arthur thought glumly.

The bad thing is that now he was completely aware of an attractive omega male in his midst. Of course, the fact that there was an omega male around didn't mean that said male was queer, but the chances were a hell of a lot better than with betas or alphas.

 _Of course, I'm sure I made a fantastic first impression on him, stuttering like a moron and then asking about his pill regimen_ , Arthur thought, shaking his head as he poured hot water into his mug.

Ah, self-loathing. Such a comforting routine to fall back into, and Arthur did exactly that for the rest of the workday until he could finally go home and masturbate until his fingers wanted to fall off.


	2. In Which Alfred Gives Off the Right Impression

Two weeks later, and Arthur thought that if this HR stint didn't work out for him, he'd be an excellent stalker. He wondered if the pay rate was good for that.

Turns out that Alfred F. Jones liked to get around. Sure, from Detroit, but born in Iowa, and had lived in Washington State and Ohio prior to his current residence. He held a degree in Automotive Engineering from the University of Michigan, and had spent a semester in Wolfsburg, Germany. He had an Instagram account that seemed to be dedicated to #foodporn, though he did have a selfie of himself smiling in front of Big Ben labeled #camefortheaccentsstayedforthegiantclock.

Arthur was glad his office was a single room in a basement. At least nobody would be able to see his shame. He had been restless ever since that first meeting with Alfred, and he knew it was his own instincts going overboard. Obviously, they had perked up since the American hadn't been firmly on his medicine regimen and now they wouldn't go the bloody hell away.

The good news was that at least his masturbation habits and fantasies had become more creative, he thought, still glum.

He hadn't seen Alfred at all since the first day, but he had heard him. The American's laugh could knock down walls faster than a bulldozer, and every once in a while Arthur could hear its deep, warm tones rolling down the stairs and assaulting his eardrums. Arthur had to stop writing with ballpoint pens and switch to pencils after he had accidentally snapped a couple of pens when his ears picked up on the laugh. It was messy.

This. Was. Ridiculous. Arthur was not even a particularly strong person; snapping a ballpoint pen with a single hand was generally out of his strength zone.

He knew it was due to the torrent of hormones that would come screaming down through his veins, the alpha inside demanding that he _do something_ about this.

He was staring at his blank computer screen and considering chemical castration when there was a knock on the door. Running a hand through his hair and turning around, he said, "Ye-"

And then was promptly shut up by Alfred leaning against the doorframe, a cup from Pret A Manger in his hand. "Hello," Alfred said, walking up and - Not again, Arthur thought helplessly - offering up another illegally-attractive smile. "I bought a round of drinks for the receptionists and figured it would be rude not to include you."

…thankfully, Arthur was at least able to keep his head screwed on straight. The other must be back on his pills. "Because I'm on the same level as the secretaries, then, is it?" Arthur asked, but reached out and took the maroon-topped cup; he was afraid Alfred was just going to shove it in his face if he didn't take it.

Alfred clicked his teeth and rolled his pretty blue eyes. "Oh, now. You're the only one down here. I'm under the impression that if round-buying isn't adhered to, one becomes a social pariah in these parts."

"Or it means you're a tight-arse," Arthur responded, and then winced. All right, that was unprofessional. (Though in your case, having a tight-arse wouldn't… Christ, Arthur, the man is on his meds!)

Fortunately, his unbecoming response only coaxed another, bigger smile out of the other. Arthur's heart was trying to hammer out of his chest. "Well, I wouldn't want to give off _that_ impression," he said, giving Arthur another wink and Arthur must have been a mass murder in his previous life, really, in order to be tormented so with this. "I'm sure you don't either, hm?"

Uh. Arthur, feeling the warmth of the beverage he held seep through the cup and into his hand, raised an eyebrow, not sure how to respond.

"I've noticed you never coming out to the pub with us after work," Alfred continued. "Do you not drink?"

Arthur's hand flexed a little around the warm cup. "I drink," he heard his mouth answering, once again reduced to responses little better than monosyllables. _Oh, for fuck's sake, Arthur._ He took a breath and reached forward for bravado, since at least that was still around. "I could drink you under a table, I wager." ( _And once you were under it proceed to-would you stop, you half-wit?_ )

Another beautiful white smile. Alfred had a dimple on the left side, and now Arthur was condemned to remember that forever and probably imagine shooting semen all over it. Superb. "Then you should buy the next round this Friday," Alfred suggested, a note of playfulness in his voice that would have sounded disturbing coming from the mouth of any other grown male other than this one.

Arthur looked down at the cup in his hand. Truly, it wasn't that he didn't drink, and it wasn't that he couldn't put back enough liquor to float an armada. It was just that everybody he worked with was a cunt. Arthur didn't like those. In any sense of the word.

Normally he was pretty good at refusing this sort of ridiculousness, but looking down at the beverage with the star-carved medallion sticking out of the opening just made him feel… somehow wrong, like this shouldn't be happening. He needed to accept this invitation.

In fact, there was no choice but to accept the invitation. It was like being shamed somehow. What in the fuck is the matter with me?

"…all right," he said, looking up, rewarded by the American's grin.

"Great," Alfred said, his voice a little softer. "Usual spot, I'm sure you know it by now. See you then." And away the man went.

Arthur paused, listening to the footsteps go and trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He looked down at the beverage. He hadn't even asked what it was. Opening it produced a flat white.

…this was Arthur's normal order when he went out to get something from a coffee shop. It was rare when he did, since he was much more of a tea-drinker and far too frugal to buy teabags from restaurants when he could make it himself at work or home. Arthur had no idea how Alfred would have known about this… perhaps he had asked one of the receptionists. They were all horrid gossips.

The wrong feeling thudded inside of him again, and Arthur shook his head. "What is it?" he asked, frustrated with himself. He wasn't angry with Alfred, and, besides, getting somebody a hot drink was a thoughtful thing, right?

…then it made sense. Alfred had brought him a gift.

That isn't how this works, the angry, instinctual part of him said, sick of being ignored. You are supposed to bring him gifts, you prat.

Arthur put down the drink and buried his head in his hands. For the majority of his life, Arthur hadn't really minded being the genetic freak of a son produced from two betas. In fact, his parents were reasonable, staunch, doting people who had given him a great skillset. Arthur was more dedicated to his work and duties than most alphas; this actually made Arthur proud. Combined with his natural alpha tendencies, this made him a force to be reckoned with in the workplace and despite the fact that he was stuck working in a basement, he had his own office and and climbed the ladder very quickly. He wasn't some dumb animal drawn after the scent of omega like a stallion to mare.

But, now, all of this was happening and he didn't know what to do and he didn't know who to _ask_.


	3. In Which Arthur is Not a Chair

Arthur walked up to the Pig & Whistle that Friday with a deep breath. This was the gathering place of choice since it was merely around the block from the office; Arthur stayed late 'working' so he'd have an excuse not to show up on time.

 _Not that there's ever really an 'on time' for popping by the pub for a pint_ , he thought to himself irritably, staring at the door. He knew that his presence was going to cause all of the regulars to go _oooh, Arthur_ or _somebody finally decided to grace us with his presence_ or _what the fuck are you doing here_ , depending on their gender, sexual persuasion, type, or how much Arthur had manage to insult them for being a stupid cunt in the past.

As he stood on the steps, Arthur briefly considered just walking on by and going home. But that would make him a worthless coward.

Arthur briefly thought that it wouldn't be so bad, really, to be a coward.

At that moment, though, the door opened and Arthur basically had to jump backward to avoid being knocked on his arse.

"Ah, forgive-" The person exiting had a cigarette hanging from his lips, long curled blond hair, and a stupid fucking French accent. "Arthur, _mon cher_! What a-"

"I am not your chair," Arthur snapped, and there was a flare of the normal anger he normally felt in the presence of Francis, that goddamn stupid French alpha salesman who could probably sell water to a drowning man what with his charm and his accent-

As the door to the pub slid shut, one sound cut through Arthur's consciousness: the honey-dark-addictive sound of Alfred laughing.

The door closing cut the sound, and Arthur swallowed what felt like his Adam's apple and his brain and his ability to produce English syllables. Distracted - that laugh was like getting blindsided - Arthur looked up into the Frenchman's eyes, watching them widen.

"Arthur, come have a smoke," Francis said, stepping off the curb and into the doorway of the closed office next door. He leaned against the brick and motioned Arthur over.

"And why would I want to do that?" Arthur asked, hands in fists.

Francis raised a manicured eyebrow at him and pulled out a Zippo. "Because if you walk in there giving off your current scent of pheromones, you'll get in a fight with the Russian electrical engineer," Francis replied, shaking his head. "Come over here and have a smoke. I assure you, I do not have the taste for Americans." He chuckled. "Or, more correct, I would not turn one down but would not fight a British bulldog for him."

Arthur took another deep inhale. Francis blew a wisp of smoke through his nose that managed to curl attractively among the pale spun gold of his hair. There was a biting response trying to peel itself off Arthur's tongue, but he couldn't seem to move it. Francis smiled.

Arthur exhaled and moved into the doorway, taking a cigarette from Francis' silver cigarette holder, putting it between his lips and leaning forward to light the end from the Zippo that Francis offered. "It's that obvious, then?" Arthur asked, exhaling.

Francis laughed - his real one, not the one he used to upsell clients. "Particularly since you normally give off the scent of stunted, constipated alpha," Francis replied, holding his cigarette between his forefinger and thumb. "The way that you smell now is going to start a pub brawl."

"And how do I smell now?" Arthur asked, feeling irritated.

Francis gave another chuckle. "Like cigarette smoke," he said, and shook his head. "Also, like if any other alpha comes between you and your desired target, you will tear out their jugular with your crooked teeth. You reek of it."

Arthur fixed the Frenchman with a deadpan look, taking another drag. There was a pause. "I can't smell you," he heard himself muttering, averting his eyes.

Francis raised an eyebrow. " _Quoi_?" he asked lightly.

Arthur wanted to punch him, seriously. "You are perfectly capable of speaking English," he managed evenly. "And also perfectly capable of _hearing me_." Damn this to hell; he could feel color starting to heat his cheeks. _I shouldn't have said anything._ He grimaced, and turned his wrist so he could flick the half-smoked cigarette out into the gutter.

Before he could get the action off, though, Francis' gloved hand grabbed his wrist. "It's bad manners to waste fine cigarettes," Francis admonished after a moment. "And… I was not thinking you were being serious. You English can be difficult to know if you are being serious or not being serious." Francis let go of his wrist.

Arthur looked at him for a moment. There was literally nobody else to ask about this. Nobody. He raised the cigarette back to his lips. "No. I can't smell you."

Francis tipped his head and watched a woman in a red coat walk by. "That woman is an unbonded alpha," he said, and Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Not particularly interested in a relationship… much to a sad omega's dismay, though… I can smell his want on her." He looked back at Arthur. "Now you try."

Arthur nearly threw the cigarette in the Frog's far-too-pretty face. "You could be making that up, prat."

Francis rolled his eyes, and then stepped slightly out of the alcove, ignoring Arthur's hissed what are you doing you stupid fuck. The woman in the red coat had been stopped at the cross by the light. " _Mademoiselle_!"

The woman in red turned around and raised an eyebrow. Arthur could see that her gloved hands curled into fists.

"I am from out of town and wouldn't mind a helpful local guide, _oui_?" Francis nearly purred, and Arthur shrank farther back into the doorway so that hopefully the woman couldn't see him. Maybe he could meld into the brick. "You look like one who knows where she is going."

As he had shrunk so far back into the alcove, Arthur couldn't see the woman, but he definitely heard the extremely loud New York accent that bounced off the wall: "If you're looking for a local, you ain't looking for me, bucko. Go find some local omega floozy, why don'tcha? Best of luck. Have a nice day! Fuckin' asshole, catcalling women on the streets. And they say Europeans are dignified. You're worse than a goddamn construction worker."

Francis leaned back into the alcove and lit another fag as the light changed and the woman crossed the street. "Well, that worked more poorly than originally thought, but, well, definitely an alpha."

"That could have been a lucky guess," Arthur growled, still mortified and leveling a glare at the Frenchman. Though, it was true that female alphas were relatively rare. Most were either omegas or betas.

Francis sighed, and leveled an exasperated look at Arthur. "The object of your affection is an unattached omega male." He put his cigarette to his mouth. "And a hell of a flirt. He's been treating the Russian all night, certainly."

 _Wrong_ , something within him pulsed, and he vengefully tossed the cigarette out into the street. "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?" he snapped.

"You're giving off the 'I-will-kill-you' pheromone again," Francis responded dryly.

"I'm giving off the 'I-don't-know-when-my-job-became-an-international-fuck-fest' opinion!" Arthur said, and had half a mind to storm out and just go the hell home, when-

"You honestly do not know any of this?" Francis asked, voice softer than normal. "Truly? Most of us learn this from our parents. It's just… like you learn how to walk. They didn't teach you?"

Arthur hesitated, shoving his hands back in his pockets and looking back out toward the street. "My parents were betas," he ground out after a long moment.

There was a beat of silence. " _Quelle malchance_ ," he breathed. "Oh, Arthur…"

"What," Arthur said blandly, looking out at the rain. "It's not like I grew up starving in a refugee camp. I turned out bloody fine and my parents are good people."

Suddenly, there was a gloved hand on Arthur's shoulder, and he flinched, but something made him not go storming out into the fog; something in the air, maybe, something that calmed him.

"Of course you did," Francis said, that stupid accent so damnably soft. "And of course they are. It's just that this is going to be much harder for you than it would otherwise be. Not only because you do not know, but because everybody else will expect you know."

Arthur didn't say anything; he stared out into the street.

"I'm heading home, now," Francis' voice said behind him. "But, as I'm sure you have figured out, your target of amore is an unmated omega male. I don't think he's that interested in the Russian. If I could, I would suggest you go speak to him before he realizes his British Navy isn't coming for him and you end up losing the Crimean War, no?"

Arthur pursed his lips. "That is the worst attempt at historical allegory I've ever heard," he ground out.

Francis chuckled, and stepped out from behind him so Arthur could see his face. "I disagree, _mon cher_. After all, in this, I am on your side." He patted Arthur's shoulder again and pulled out a couple of cigarettes, dropping them in Arthur's pocket. "In case you need. Also, asking an attractive young omega for a smoke is a wonderful way to get your omega to leave the party and come be with only you. They will have matches inside the pub."

Arthur looked down at the two cigarettes in his pocket, before looking up at Francis. "You're leaving so early, then? Nobody of your fancy tonight?" he asked, trying to change the conversation.

Francis gave him a half-grin. "Oh, much takes my fancy," Francis said, bobbing his head back and forth like an utter twit. "But my current fancy is also from North America… just slightly north. I prefer Canadians, you see… they understand when I speak to them in the true language of love. Americans, most Americans only speak the English tongue. Pity, my little Canadian did not come out tonight, so there is no reason to stay and make you more awkward than you already are."

Arthur would have hit him basically any other day, but today he refrained. "I see," he simply said instead.

Francis stepped out of the alcove and into the street. "And with that, I bid you adieu," the Frenchman said, turning away.

"Francis," Arthur said, the word surprising him by emerging from his throat like a desperate thing. Francis turned around, and Arthur… couldn't think of a single thing to say. He stared wordlessly.

Francis paused, tipped his head, and then a smile crossed his face. It was a handsome smile. That was the problem, Arthur thought, he's so goddamn good looking and it isn't fair.

"You are welcome, my chair," he said, before flashing another grin and heading toward the Tube stop.

Arthur sighed, rubbed his forehead, and went into the pub.


	4. In Which Ivan Offers His Assistance. Sort Of.

The inside of the pub was much like any other; dark wood, golden lighting, and a lot of drunk idiots tittering away in booths and on stools. Arthur looked around, resettling his coat on his shoulders and looking for a familiar face-

"Arthur?"

Arthur jumped a bit and looked down, startled, into Alfred's face. How in the heck had the other managed to get under his nose so quietly? That was just not-

Oh, wait, purple eyes. This was whats-his-face the Canadian fellow.

Wait, didn't Francis specifically leave because this gent apparently wasn't here? "What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, managing to sound entirely caustic though he was mostly surprised.

The Canadian's face colored and he looked down into his drink.

Arthur sighed. "I meant, I just ran into Francis from Sales and-"

"Francis?" the entirely-forgettable man in front of him asked, his strangely-pretty (but not quite as pretty as sky blue, no) eyes perking up at the name. "Francis is here?"

"Francis was here," Arthur corrected, and paused when the other's eyes fell. Something about the other's expression hit him in a strange way, like he wanted to help, here. "He specifically told me he left because he couldn't find you," he added grudgingly.

"I've been here the whole time!" whats-his-face wailed, staring despondently down into his amber ale.

Francis was probably in the bloody toilet the entire time sticking his stupid frog-tongue down his manager's throat, Arthur thought, but didn't say. Instead, he sighed. "Do you have his number?" he asked, voice gruff.

Whats-his-face looked up. "…no," he said. "I've never asked."

You don't seem like you'd have the nerve, Arthur thought, but, well, he realized how overbearing the Frog could be, certainly. He sighed and pulled his mobile from his pocket. "I'll give it to you. Trust me, he'll be pleased you have it." Come on, now, Arthur, you owe Francis. Sigh. "He lives at Swiss Cottage, on the-"

"Jubilee line," whats-his-face said. "I've been living in London for three years now, you know."

Actually, Arthur didn't know that, just like he didn't know the poor chap's name. "Right. Well, there's a small French bistro catastrophe that he loves… forget the name, something French, but you can't miss it if you get off at Exit 2. Text him and ask if he wants to meet there. He lives in the building. If you're quick, you'll catch him before he finds something else to do." He showed whats-his-face the phone screen so he could copy down Francis' number.

Actually, the bistro was not a catastrophe, and probably had the best pâte à choux in London. The few times Arthur had grudgingly gone to go eat there and get mocked by the Frenchman, he basically drowned himself in beignets and gougères and gotten soused on Burgundy. Whatever. Not the point.

Whats-his-face's face lit up with a smile that was actually quite nice-looking, if it didn't make Arthur want to push him down and splooge all over his face the way that Alfred's did. "Are you sure it'll be okay?" he asked, hope dangling all over the end of the last syllable as he tapped the number into his phone. Before waiting for an answer, he turned and managed to flag down the bartender. "One of whatever he wants,"-pointing to Arthur-"and then I'd like to close my tab."

The bartender flashed Arthur a surly look, and Arthur sighed. "Whatever your porter is would be fine," he told the surly expression before turning back to whats-his-face. "Trust me. If you call, he'll get all C'est bon! Mon dieu! Mon cher! and whatever else he'll say to get you into bed."

That made whats-his-face laugh. "That doesn't sound so bad," he admitted quietly, which made Arthur want to puke in his mouth a little bit, but, whatever.

"Matthew Williams?" the surly-expressioned bartender asked, coming back over with a pint that he slammed in front of Arthur like a judge might strike a gavel and holding a card.

"Yeah," whats-his-face-now-Matthiew said, signing the receipt and passing it over before standing and taking down the rest of his amber ale in… a surprisingly practiced chug. The pint had nearly been full and it disappeared down the other's gullet in less than two seconds.

"Impressive," Arthur remarked, raising an eyebrow at the now-empty glass as Matthew sat it down.

Matthew laughed. "Played a lot of hockey in high school and college," he admitted. "You learn a few skills. Anyway, thanks, Arthur. Have a good night." Matthew threw on his jacket and was out the door when Arthur interrupted him.

"Hey, Matthew, do me a favor," Arthur said, leaning against the bar, bringing his porter to his mouth.

"Yeah?" Matthew asked, phone in hand.

"Tell Francis you got his number from me, if you would," Arthur said, attempting to hide his smirk behind his drink and mostly failing. "We have a friendly rivalry and I always like to rub helping him out in his face."

That made Matthew snort. "Sure," he responded, and was out the door.

Well. If nothing else, at least that leveled the playing field a bit between himself and the Frog, Arthur supposed. He wet his lips with the porter - pretty decent, but the coffee-chocolate balance was slightly off and Arthur'd had better - and turned back into the pub.

It was crowded at this point, and there was no choice but to move deeper into the crowd if he wanted to find his target. He stepped into the crowd; a familiar laugh echoed over it.

If nothing else, the American's loudness made him easy to locate as Arthur zeroed in on that sound and found it coming from a booth tucked into the back. He followed it, weaving and bobbing through the throng of increasingly-drunk idiots - spilling some of his porter on his hand, to his disgust - and pretending not to notice when anybody called his name until he got to the booth.

There were three people sitting in it: Alfred alone on one side of the booth, the other side flanked with Ivan the electrical engineer and Toris, who worked in PR. It was Ivan who noticed him first, looking over at him and letting a slow, cold smile spread across his face like a crack in the ice.

That was when Alfred looked up, and his face positively blossomed. Arthur willed himself not to swoon. He was moderately successful. "Hi," he managed, mostly mumbling into his pint.

"Arthur!" Alfred said, positively ecstatic. "I thought you weren't going to make it! Sit down!" Alfred slid over into the booth, and sat down. "I invited Arthur out this week since I hadn't seen him out," Alfred explained to the others, because apparently this was somehow their business.

"No, Arthur is not much for the coming out," Ivan agreed. Ivan was a block of a man; he stood nearly head and shoulders over Arthur and was as wide as a door with white hair and eyes so blue they were almost purple. He had an entire bottle of vodka next to him along with a shot glass and appeared to be half-done with it.

Toris, on the other hand, was small, tan, and quiet. Arthur always thought that PR was a strange career path for him - Arthur would have pegged him more as a librarian - but apparently he was good at producing marketing copy, so. "It's nice to see you, Arthur," Toris said with a small smile.

"It really is," Alfred said with another one of his warm smiles, and Arthur just wanted to lean forward and bury himself in it; it would probably taste like home.

Arthur took another swallow of his porter. "Yes," he responded, so goddamn awkward that his teeth hurt.

The conversation drifted over work and other inane subjects, but did stay relatively pleasant. Alfred was a firebrand with a surprisingly witty sense of humor in conversation; Ivan with remarks as black as coal; Toris dry and reserved. Arthur would occasionally drop a one-liner in, rewarded by Alfred's honey laugh and amused expressions from the other two.

Having friends wouldn't be so bad if this is what it's like, Arthur had to admit to himself. The evening was going a lot better than originally planned. Arthur went through his porter, and then went to buy a round for Alfred as promised earlier in the week; Ivan said he only drank vodka and, surprisingly, Toris didn't drink at all.

Also, sitting right next to Alfred and his warmth and movement and the delicious twist of the tendons in his neck when he tipped his head to pay attention and the pull of his delightfully rumpled buttoned-up shirt and the way his hair stuck out in all directions like beams of a surprising winter sun and the smell-

It was still weird, trying to scent somebody, but since Francis had seemed so insistent upon it… there were hints of it now and again, like warm sun on a wheat field or heated pavement at the end of the a long day or the living, green smell of freshly-cut grass. It was, literally intoxicating, moreso than the beer.

There was something under it, though; a strange undertone of being parched, the warm dry earth quietly waiting for the rain.

Arthur had never desperately wanted to smell like water so much in his life. He had no idea if he did, though, and no way to find out.

"You there?" Alfred asked with a gentle laugh, giving Arthur a slight push, distracting him from his thoughts. "Toris and I need to piss, man. Then I'll buy the next round, all right?"

"Oh, sorry," Arthur replied automatically, getting out of the booth so that Alfred could get up. Alfred snorted, patted Arthur's shoulder, and got up to go wait in line for the toilet. Toris followed.

Arthur slid back into the booth, now left alone with Ivan, who had an amused look on his face. "Are like Shakespeare," Ivan said, pouring… wait, what? Suddenly there were two shot glasses. "Are busy comparing love to a summer's day, yes?"

Arthur deadpanned. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

Ivan rolled his eyes. "Yes, sure, are simply staring at American's neck because is normal place to look, not because want to scent there." He pushed over one of the shot glasses. "Is vodka. Good for constitution."

"I realize it is vodka," Arthur said, looking down at the small glass with a face.

"Unless not man enough to drink, of course," Ivan said, thick fingers around his own shot glass. "I know are not Russian; is okay to be pussy if want."

That got an even more flatline look. "Really. You think insulting my manhood is going to get me to drink this crap?"

"Yes," Ivan said gamely, as if it were obvious. Arthur rolled his eyes and picked up the shot glass. "Proust," Ivan said primly.

"Cheers," Arthur responded, and… down it went. Wow. It had been a while.

Three more of those later, everything was feeling a bit hazy and then… somehow some things came into sharper focus, despite the fact that he couldn't see as well anymore. In the haze of colors and sounds there was another underlying theme: the smells.

Ivan, who was saying nothing at this point and simply smiling vacantly, Ivan of ice and salted winter roads and hot wine and warm hearths. A waitress walked by; a sweeter smell, roses and daffodils augmented with something heavier, ocean and pine (she was obviously taken). A strong scent of rye and barley appeared; Arthur looked up and saw Toris, who was smiling and sat down next to Ivan's winter, sustenance next to endurance; Ivan put an arm around Toris' shoulders. Toris blushed and looked at Arthur, but didn't move away.

"Is this seat taken?" Alfred's voice asked, and Arthur tipped his head up. Alfred held two more glasses of beer, and Arthur managed to shake his head and slide back into the booth.

Oh, Alfred. Sun and wheat and warmth and cooked meat; falling leaves, salty ocean, sandalwood, tulips and myrrh; sun-on-gold and gold-on-maple trees and sugaring season and everything so fucking perfect that Arthur could have cried.

Obviously, Alfred noticed that Arthur was staring at him like a lunatic, and Alfred put the beers down and furrowed his brows. "You okay, man?"

"He is a little drunk," Ivan said casually, winter blowing in from across the table. "Wanted to ask, though; do you still have interest in, ah, coming back with Toris and me for tonight, after-party entertainment, da?"

Even Alfred managed to look a bit affronted at the question being asked so openly in front of Arthur, and Toris looked absolutely horrified, smacking Ivan on the arm. "Ivan," Arthur heard Toris hiss.

Ivan was looking over at Arthur, still smiling vacantly at him, the cold front of an impenetrable winter who really didn't give a serious shit about politeness. Not much was polite about winter, really.

Well, fuck that. Arthur was from England, and he didn't have to put up with that frigid icy bullshit ruining his life.

Before anything else could be said, Arthur turned around in the booth, reached forward, and grabbed an astonished Alfred's chin (stubble scrape like hot gravel against knees) yanked him over, and planted his lips on Alfred's.

This close, the scent was stronger; the parched underbelly of the warm grasslands, and he could distinctly tell another smell was reflecting against this dryness.

Rain. Fog. Decay-of-leaves in the damp. Salty seaspray and mist over moors.

It was perfect. The sound of the pub churned around them while Alfred's hot body leaned against Arthur's and the sun and the rain wound together and it was perfect, so perfect, nothing had been so perfect before.


End file.
